


Severed

by Yulliah



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Veela Draco, non-explicit reference to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:43:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yulliah/pseuds/Yulliah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens to a Veela when an angry mob cuts his wings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Severed

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the amazing Harrytwifan!
> 
> Written for the Do_Me_Veela fest on LJ
> 
> As always, I do NOT own Harry Potter or anything even remotely close to it...

“I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here, Mr. Potter,” a mediwitch said as she walked by and narrowed her eyes at Harry.

“Malfoy,” Harry grumbled, and pressed the rest of his cigarette into the earth of a potted plant. He showed his empty hands to the mediwitch and slumped back down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs lining the corridor.

The stern woman cast another suspicious look in Harry’s direction, after which she turned the corner and her footsteps could be heard clicking against the tile floor, slowly fading away. Harry craned his neck to check for any other St. Mungo’s personnel. There wasn’t anyone in sight.

With a flick of his wand, he cast a Disillusionment charm on himself and took another smoke from a half empty pack in the front pocket of his jacket. There was no way he would make it through the night without smoking, and not a chance in hell he would leave this hallway before he knew anything.

He lit the smoke, inhaling deeply, before he checked the watch Molly had given him for his 17th with a satisfied expiration. _Damnit._ Four hours. They should’ve been able to tell him something by now.

The click-clack of heels against the tile came closer again, and Harry made sure to sit as still as possible when the same mediwitch turned back into the corridor. At first she walked right by him, but when she was about seven feet away, she paused, turned around, and looked Harry right in the eyes.

“Mr. Potter, I can smell your cigarette,” she said with an annoyed frown.

“Malfoy,” he grumbled in reply, and pressed this cigarette into the potted earth as well.

She came closer and held up her hand. “I’ll have them, please,” she said, raising an eyebrow as Harry defiantly pulled his lips into a tight line.

He tried for innocent. “Sorry, honestly,” he said, producing his award-winning Boy Who Lived smile. “I promise I’ll go outside to smoke.”

The mediwitch was clearly not impressed. She snapped her fingers impatiently before opening her hand once again. “Hand them over, Mr. Potter, before I make you leave the hospital.”

Harry yanked the pack from his pocket and pressed it into her hand with an irritated, “Malfoy.”

She turned without another word and walked away with his cigarettes. Harry ran his hand through his hair and checked his watch again, though he really didn’t know what the point was. They would come to him when there was anything to know.

Damnit, he missed Draco. Draco was always so good at distracting him when he was stressed out and worried about something. Draco was amazing at keeping him calm and relaxed.

Of course, that didn’t really help when Draco was the one he was stressed and worried about. Why did Ron and Hermione have to go on their second honeymoon now?

He stood up, paced the corridor a few times, and sat back down.

_Damnit_. He could really use a smoke.

He eyed the the earth he’d stuck his cigarette into and shrugged. He relit it with his wand and sat back, his head bending in a weird angle against the wall. Those chairs were really the most uncomfortable chairs he’d ever sat on––save for that hard, wooden chair Professor Snape used to have in his office. Maybe he should donate some chairs to St. Mungo’s, or suggest the chairs should be excluded from the ‘No Transfigurations’ policy rigidly enforced with Wards.

Harry uselessly shifted on the chair to get more comfortable, and closed his eyes as he took another drag of his smoke. _Come on, Draco!_

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry jumped to his feet, hid the smoke behind his back, and turned his head to look at the man who had spoken up. _Fuck, crimson robes, not lime green._

“Malfoy,” Harry said, sneering a little when the Auror made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Yes, I’m Robert Dawes. The Ministry has been contacted by St. Mungo’s due to the nature of Mr. Malfoy’s injuries. Can you enlighten me as to what happened?”

“I-I’m not sure,” Harry replied, tossing the unfinished cigarette back into the pot. “All I know is they attacked him. It all happened so fast.”

Shoving his slightly shaking hands in his pockets, Harry raised his shoulders and caught sight of his bloodied shirt. He looked up at the Auror who was eyeing him expectantly. “I only stepped into Flourish and Blotts for a moment without him, he said and sighed. "I mean, you don’t pick up gifts for someone when they’re standing right beside you, do you?”

Dawes nodded for Harry to continue as his quill made a scratching noise against a piece of parchment floating besides his head.

“Well, as I said, I was only inside for a moment." Harry removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed his left wrist over his right under arm. "When I noticed the commotion, I ran outside, and h-."

_Fuck._ There had been so much blood. And Draco's wing, and-.

He took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest, grabbing his shoulders and lowering his eyes. “He was just laying there, broken. Do you know how much force it takes? To take down a Veela?”

Dawes hummed in understanding. “Did you see any of the attackers, Mr. Potter?”

“Malfoy. Honestly, how hard can it be to remember?” Harry mumbled and sat back down, a shiver running down his back.

Dawes flushed lightly, but his gaze never lost its determination.

“No,” Harry replied to his question. “I was a little too preoccupied with my bleeding husband to look around and see who was there." After a short silence he added: "He must’ve fought back, so there’s bound to be some injuries.”

“Mr. Potter?” a woman asked.

Harry flicked his eyes to the ceiling and threw up his hands. “Yes?” he growled.

“Mr. Malfoy is out of surgery.”

Harry snapped his head around and breathed a sigh of relief at the Healer’s comforting smile. “How is he?” he asked, completely forgetting about the Auror that was still there.

“He’s fine, Mr. Potter,” the Healer said. Harry couldn’t give a rat’s arse about the name at that moment; Draco was going to be okay. “We’ve managed to reattach the left wing, and he should regain full use of it. The other wing will require some therapy, for we had to heal 62 individual breaks. But overall, Mr. Malfoy was very lucky.”

Harry huffed. Yes, very lucky to have been attacked in broad daylight in the middle of a bleeding shopping street. “Can I see him?”

The Healer smiled. “They are moving him to a private room right now. A mediwitch will come to take you to him when he’s settled.”

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry turned with a sigh and looked at the Auror.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Malfoy about the attack if possible,” Dawes said, but the Healer interrupted before Harry could reply.

“Mr. Malfoy won’t be conscious for a while. Come back tomorrow afternoon and we’ll see if he’s ready to talk.”

Harry gave her a relieved smile and missed the stone-faced nod the Auror gave her behind Harry’s back before he turned on his heels and left.

Twenty long minutes later, a mediwizard came to bring Harry to Draco’s room.

He looked so pale against the white cotton sheets. His wings were tightly wrapped against his back so they wouldn’t move, and he was laying on his side, propped up against a wall of pillows to keep him from rolling over.

Harry sat down next to the bed and ran his hand over Draco’s hair. “Couldn’t make nice for ten minutes, could you?” he said softly, before leaning in and kissing Draco’s forehead. He was never _ever_ going to let his husband out of his sight _ever_ again.

He snorted at the thought. Draco was supposed to be the over-protective one. He had been since he, the Veela, and Harry, his destined Mate, bonded over four months ago. Still, as time passed it, became clear the Wizarding world didn’t easily accept the bonding of their favourite hero with an infamous Death Eater.  
Now Harry vowed he would make sure no one ever touched Draco again.

It wasn’t until the very early morning that Draco shifted in the bed and moaned.

“Draco?” Harry whispered, flicking his wand to create a little more light in the room.

Draco opened his eyes wide in panic and shook his body forward and backward.

“Shhhhhh, it’s okay,” Harry said, laying a hand on Draco’s cheek. “Shhhh, don’t move. You’re going to be fine, but you can’t move your wings right now. You’re in St. Mungo’s, and the Healers fixed you right up. So stay still, alright? Otherwise they’ll have to start all over again.”

Draco grabbed Harry’s wrist and moaned again, but he calmed down and laid his head back down on the pillow, blinking up at Harry with teary eyes. “I couldn’t do anything,” he croaked. “They were too strong.”

“I know, baby,” Harry said. He kissed his husband softly on his lips and rested his forehead against Draco’s. “We’ll figure it out, okay? No one's ever going to hurt you again. I promise.”

Draco smiled weakly and closed his eyes. “I love you, Harry.”

Harry ran his hand over Draco’s silky blond hair and kissed the man’s forehead again. “I love you too, baby. More than anything.”

  
~Fin~


End file.
